


Conservation of Mattering

by Prix



Category: The Expanse (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous Relationships, Dad Material AU, Gang Violence, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Multi, Parent-Child Relationship, Police corruption, Poverty, Rating May Change, Team as Family, Teambuilding, domestic abuse, potential polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-26 16:42:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14406231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prix/pseuds/Prix
Summary: Naomi Nagata has endured more than her fair share of pain for the sake of her relationship with her child's father. She has finally reached her limit and decides to leave. However, escaping the grasp of someone like Marco Inaros isn't going to be easy without a lot of help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have not read _The Expanse_ book entitled _Nemesis Games_ (I'm still reading _Leviathan Wakes_ ) but this fic contains references to canon that are revealed there. Obviously due to the AU setting, I don't really have to adhere to canon, but concepts borrowed and transformed from book canon exist. Other spoilery character role notes are at the end. 
> 
> This is a weird, self-indulgent AU that is my first attempt at a Modern AU since I was a preteen with some floppy discs. I fully intend to create more canon-compliant content, but as I have been learning about _The Expanse_ canon, I just desperately needed to write a fic where Naomi can successfully fight to keep her son. Add to that a few silly, less-dire-stakes AU thoughts and this was born. 
> 
> This fic attempts to translate certain concepts from canon character roles, jobs, backgrounds, and ideologies while it changes others. Some elements will be softer and kinder to characters while others won't. Because this is a character-driven story, I have certain concerns about painting with too broad a brush about serious social issues such as police corruption, gang violence, inner-city urban decay, domestic abuse, poverty, and child custody laws. However, I have read about all these things in an attempt to anchor myself before writing what is actually supposed to turn out to be a happy-ending sort of story. I expect that it will be a dramedy-romance kind of thing with some rough edges if it turns out the way I plan. Anyway, when it comes to talking about Real Life issues and the heavier thematic elements here, I certainly will welcome constructive criticism and help, but also bear in mind this **disclaimer** that I do not really intend for this fic to accurately reflect the minutiae of the ills of urban America. It's a setting more than a commentary, but I will be trying to treat it with respect. I feel like I should also note that I have experienced at least poverty first- and directly-second-hand so, again, I'm not like romanticizing anything that shouldn't be I hope. 
> 
> "Camina" is Drummer from _The Expanse_ television series and should be read as such. Thus far her television incarnation does not have a first name, but this is the first name of the character for which she was named from the books while she seems to be more of a composite character.

She wakes up the same way and in the same place that she has for a couple of years now. There is a low, white hum of mid-morning sun melting away dew and awakening many of her neighbors. Her phone says it's **10:06** , and she still doesn't hear another adult in the apartment. She stays very still and very quiet, lying on her back on the mattress which is set simply along the middle of the wall on the floor of the larger of the two bedrooms. She is bracing herself for movement, for what comes next – rehearsing half-sobbed and half-dreamed plans from the night before with sticky eyes and a clearer head.

She braces herself for getting up, smoothly and quietly. She is hoping that she can manage to pee before the baby awakens after her for the final time of the morning. For the final time here, in this place, before something changes.

She doesn't quite make it. The soles of her feet are over the cool threshold of the bathroom before she hears the subtle movements of her son squirming in his crib back across the hall. She sighs softly and steadies herself. She goes to the crib, and the moment she lays eyes on Filip, the ache in her abdomen is forgotten. He is sitting up and reaching for the rung at the side of the crib. He appears alert, eyes darting this way and that.

She grins at him and gestures up toward herself in an encouraging motion. Filip does his best on the little mattress, and she helps him pull himself up and out the rest of the way. She holds him close, his cheek touching her neck. He squirms and she feels his hands brace at her collarbone. She soothes and bounces him idly. Her eyes dart around the room, considering how this is the only bedroom Filip has ever known.

He is so young. He'll outgrow all of this. He'll forget and move on. She isn't so sure about herself.

She takes him to get him cleaned up and changed. She gets him fed and comfortable. Then, at last, she finds a place for him while she tends to herself and washes up in the nearest sink. She feels a little bit of sweat clinging to the back of her neck, but she can shower when she gets where she's going. Every moment she can save is one more moment that she doesn't have to explain. It's one more moment she and her son won't have to endure shouting, guilt trips, or anything else that might follow honesty – the real truth.

A little while later, Filip is sitting on the rug in front of a silent, blank television, shaking a toy in his tiny hand. Naomi glances over at him while she packs half a diaper bag full of things from the kitchen cupboards. She doesn't leave them bare, but she takes enough. The past hour has been filled up with removing small piece by small piece of her life from the apartment that has been her home for going on three years. She finds herself putting things back neatly, as untouched and clean as possible. It feels like she expects to walk back in tonight with none of this making any difference, but she has made up her mind.

\- - -

“You got me out of bed and over here before noon, and I'm _still_ waiting,” Camina says dramatically. She has turned and folded her arms across her chest, leaning her back against the body of her car even with the fuel cap. The back passenger door is open with a car-seat affixed inside. Naomi notices the deep intake of breath no matter how much Camina seems determined to hide that this is anything but easy.

“It's half-past twelve now,” Naomi points out, only when she has descended the last steps from the door and come halfway across the green-space between the side door and the curb. She has Filip held to one side of her body while one strap of a backpack is slung across the other.

“Same difference,” Camina insists as she pushes off her car. She reaches out and wordlessly takes the backpack, hauling it around the car and placing it behind the driver's seat while Naomi positions Filip. He fusses a little as he is placed on his back and strapped in, but there's nothing to do for it. She touches his chest and tickles lightly across it. She stills her hand and tries to focus her eyes on his. She smiles, letting him see her practiced grin before she speaks. He makes a sound of punctuated confusion, abrupt focus, cutting off his complaint.

“We're alright, little man,” she tells him. She rubs his chest again without looking away from him. “We're okay.”

Naomi looks up with a little bit of a start when Camina moves and almost bumps the back of her head on the roof of the car.

“At least sound like you're telling the truth,” Camina advises.

Naomi can't even manage a glare. Her lips fall open, and she looks at this woman – her friend, maybe, be someone she hasn't seen in a long time who is suddenly here at least – and manages something more like incredulity. She gives Filip a guilty, quick, pointed glance for Camina's sake.

“Not like he knows what I'm saying yet,” Camina says flatly.

“He'll _learn_ ,” Naomi insists.

“One day at a time,” Camina says, the words rolling off her tongue in a way that makes it hard to tell if she's thought about them. “Ready to go?” she asks, moving quickly from one topic to another. The volume of her voice alone is enough to set Naomi on edge. She catches herself glancing around, wondering if Camina is making herself heard, wondering if it's going to draw any kind of retaliation before they travel a mile.

Naomi's eyes flit to the items that occupy the seat behind the driver's. A backpack, a diaper bag, several blankets and pillows, a few towels, and an extra plastic shopping bag or two of bottles of cosmetics and soap and children's toys make up what is left of the life she is trying to leave behind.

“As I'll ever be,” she says, trying for honesty she thinks Camina will appreciate.

Without offering a reply, Camina steps back. She pushes the back door closed behind her with a little too much resolve for a risky drive across town. Naomi gives Filip another gentle stroke across his chest and withdraws as diplomatically as she can. She checks the straps and slides into the front passenger's seat beside Camina. She leans back as much as the upright seat will let her. She sighs heavily, feeling tension try to leave her body.

“I'm serious,” Camina says as she adjusts her rearview mirror. It strikes Naomi as a more vigilant move than she might have expected. “You are going to be okay,” she says.

“I wish I shared your confidence,” Naomi replies, allowing herself to give in to a little bit of the easy smiling that exhaustion brings.

“I wish you did, too,” Camina says, louder than the grinding start of the vehicle. Naomi feels the soft gravity push them back as Camina breaks the speed limit a little on the way out of the neighborhood. “I'm telling you, you're gonna be fine,” she says, making a turn. She doesn't seem the least bit afraid of him, but she does seem mindful of territory or to have some innate sense of it. She speaks again only when they are in the clear. “Marco's always been an asshole.”

They make it to the other side of town, and the sun streaming in through the car window starts to warm Naomi just beyond the point of comfort. She cracks the window and feels a rush of air touch her face. It almost smells clean. She goes along in silence, and she wonders how much of that is a habit. Camina's apartment building is taller and there is very little grass at the base of it. Naomi glances in the rearview mirror to catch sight of the car-seat. Filip isn't old enough to walk yet, and this has got to be temporary, but she feels a little pinch of sadness in her chest for him. At least back home there had been grass in front of and beside the building, a swing set not far beyond that had seen better days but which hadn't rusted through. There were other things there, though, and she didn't want to take him back. She doesn't want to go back.

\- - -

She rises earlier in Camina's apartment, she realizes. On the second morning it holds true as she braces herself and stands up from the brand new air mattress. She hears little pops and cracks as her joints settle into place. She kicks the blanket back into something of a natural arrangement and goes over to the black bars of the crib that also smells as if it has just come out of a box. The one back home had been made of wood and had the marks and dings of use already etched into it when she had helped Marco set it up with the bump on her belly just showing. She sees Filip fast asleep but with traces of dried tears and spittle on his face. Her heart pangs at needing to have him in some new and strange place, but it's for the better.

She reaches down into the diaper bag and withdraws a soft cloth which she feels beneath her thumb. She heads for the bathroom sink where she already finds Camina tying up her hair.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, taking more cautious steps forward through the half-open door.

Camina shakes her head and nods to the sink as she sidesteps it a little.

“Whatever you need,” Camina says with the same energetic force that there always seems to be in her voice, even this early in the morning. Naomi tenses and almost shushes her, but she won't. This is her home, and she needs to clean up Filip's face anyway. She's sure he needs changing. There list of things to do is a comfort when she doesn't know what else to do with herself.

She turns on the tap and begins adjusting the water, waiting for it to warm enough and then nudging it in the other direction so it won't be too hot for Filip's delicate skin. She glances up and catches Camina's eyes in the mirror. A smirk creeps across her face.

“I thought you complained about being up before noon,” she remarks.

“Things change,” Camina says.

“That quickly?”

“All the time. Thought you knew that by now.”

Naomi's smirk turns into something closer to a grimace as she runs the cloth beneath the stream of water.

“Fair enough.”

After getting Filip clean, awake, and ready for a day of quiet working out what to do now, Naomi carries him into the living room. Her feet almost miss the presence of stairs as Camina's apartment is flat, compact, and clean. While Camina is busy making coffee, Naomi spreads a blanket on the floor in front of the sofa. She sets a few of Filip's toys down for him and places him near them. He plops down with a soft grunt, seeming to take stock of is surroundings. She is relieved when he reaches out with happy recognition for a soft little ring that he closes his fingers around.

“How did you afford all this stuff?” she asks quietly without looking up.

“What stuff?” Camina asks. At least she isn't offended by the question. It catches her off-guard if anything, it seems.

“The crib. The mattress. That's easily a few _hundred_ dollars in the space of a day,” she says. To some people, that wouldn't be very much. To people like them, it's a lifeline. Or so she'd thought.

“Where there's a need, there's a way, Naomi,” Camina hums. She looks over her shoulder, and Naomi senses it enough to look up to catch her eyes. “If you'd like to audit me, I'm sure that can be arranged.”

Naomi feels her stomach churn even as she smiles.

“Nope, that's just fine,” she says quickly. She looks down on the blanket, still sitting on the edge of it herself. “Thank you,” she adds after a moment of quiet. She leans back against the sofa's lower half, watching Filip entertain himself, a wet blubber of noise coming from his lips. The smile that comes with that is easier to bear than any. She almost feels like it could lull her back to sleep when there is a strong, loud knock on the door. She jolts upright and looks at Camina who stops playing with her spoon in her bowl of cereal.

Camina meets her eyes, puzzled this time.

“Not expecting anyone?” Naomi asks, not bothering to hide how weak and dry her voice has gone.

Camina shakes her head, but she stands and touches her waist and hips, smoothing out her shirt. Naomi wonders what else that might mean. She sees a set in Camina's jaw.

“I'll get it,” Camina says with command. “You stay right there. You and that baby aren't going anywhere,” she says.

Naomi nods without a word. She doesn't trust what she'll say next.

Camina approaches the door with a light step and she checks the peephole quickly.

“Fucking—” she murmurs lowly, close enough to be kissing the door. She grumbles to herself as she backs away, stopping the course of any more creative swearing. “It's a cop,” she says, seemingly to herself but informing Naomi, too.

The news that it is anyone but Marco is something of a relief. She hears Camina take a breath. She watches as she undoes the chain and the deadbolt with a decisive movement. She sees the man standing beyond the door in a sharply crisp, dark, dark blue uniform and just as quickly feels what is an engrained response by now, no matter how much she might wish it weren't. It's a whisper when it escapes her lips, and she otherwise stays very, very still. One hand creeps toward Filip, willing him not to make a sound.

“Shit,” she whispers, and panic and the man's words ring in her ears.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't read these notes if you want to be surprised by characters' roles and their slotting into this AU setting.
> 
> The general blueprint of this fic is this so far in terms of characters and their roles: 
> 
> **Naomi** has been in a relationship with **Marco** since she was 16. She is currently 19 and **Filip** is 8-10 months old. The **OPA** will be replaced with a gang(-like?) organization that operates in poor communities in this vague, American city-esque landscape. Marco will have been involved in it more intensely than Naomi was even though she associated with them due to the need for a certain sense of safety and progress the OPA-equivalent provided in an environment where the police may not have been effectively fulfilling their supposed purpose. 
> 
> **Holden** (Jim) is going to be a police officer because I think this is the best translation of Navy-era Holden. It is a place where he would competently be able to fit where he is trying to do the right thing but isn't so sure the overall organization _is_ willing to _let_ him follow his gut and do the right thing. This Holden is doing his best but is a little privately adrift. 
> 
> **Amos** is going to be someone who works for Child Protective Services who does in-home investigations. This is very slightly subject to change as I do more research, but essentially I wanted to maintain his history as a CSA-survivor but to give him an opportunity to follow along with an effort to productively deal with that. This does not mean he might not be a little bit off the books, though. 
> 
> **Alex** is going to be a military transplant to the area going through a divorce who will play a role in the thick of the plot quite unexpectedly. He will likely be a somewhat later addition, but I have plans for him to be in the midst of the learning life lessons part so never fear. 
> 
> **Camina** (Drummer) is here because I really needed Naomi to have female moral support. She is likely also affiliated with illegal or gang(-like) activity but has no love for Marco or his kind. 
> 
> All of these things are somewhat fluid as this is a fun little challenge for myself to balance out. However, these notes are provided to help you orient yourself in this world.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea if we're keeping this pace or not, but I was really encouraged to get some fast feedback from fellow Expanse fans and needed something to keep me sane today. Plus, I was really excited to getting to this part. I really hope that it continues to be enjoyable, and I welcome any and all response you may have. Thank you so much to those who have left kudos and feedback already!

Jim Holden breathes in just over the spout of his coffee cup. His nose scrunches at the acrid smell. He sighs and lifts his chin. After a moment, he levels his head and takes a sip while the burnt liquid is almost too hot for it to matter.

He doesn't flinch. It's something less than that when he feels the hot liquid rush too quickly into his mouth and leave an unpleasant, dry feeling inside his lower lip. He had passed an agility test to get this job, and yet he expects so little to happen that his radio going off startles him. It had just felt like one of those days when nothing that made his job feel like it mattered happened. Then, he's listening to a familiar crackle and voice. He sets the coffee cup down in its holder.

The man on the other end of the radio dispatches quick, coded, fragmented information about what he wants Jim to do. There is a child somewhere. His father thinks he might be at a certain address. Jim takes note of it. The voice on the other end rambles on with a little bit of conjecture that Jim filters as he secures his seat-belt and revs up the car. The guy sounded distraught but he doesn't buy it. Not the kind to be. Quick to point fingers. Typical territorial dispute but over a child. He's surprised that the likes of this guy would get the police involved. Jim clears his throat and engages the radio when he's ready to pull out onto the road.

“Got it,” he confirms, and he has – more than enough. “I'll go see if the kid's there. Check on him.”

“Yeah, but—” the dispatcher says.

Jim knows he needs to interrupt him, a knowing little smirk creeping onto his face.

“Is there anything else I _need_ to know?” 

A crackle of uncertainty that is half-static and half bored huff answers him. 

“Just pretty typical welfare check stuff, right?” Jim asks, reassurance more than anything else. 

“You got it,” the dispatcher says, the pout clear in his tone. 

“Got it,” Jim echoes, actually pressing his tongue into his cheek for a second. His lower lip still feels a little weird. 

“Holden,” the man chimes in just as Jim thinks he's clear to pull out into traffic. 

“Yeah?” he asks, a little more tightly. 

“Don't go in there playing a hero,” Jim hears. He can't help but almost roll his eyes. Since when has he had the chance to try? “You're not in there to save this kid from whatever he's growin' up in. Not by yourself. If he's in danger, you do something. If he's not there, you follow protocol. If he's safe, you follow it up.” 

“Anything else?” Jim sighs, his shoulders tightening and pushing back a little. He could cite rank or qualification or a number of other things, but he doesn't. 

“Don't tie anything in a knot. I just know you,” the man replies with a downward inflection that makes Jim think it's safe to drop the conversation, so he does. 

\- - - 

It is a long walk up to Camina Drummer's apartment. Jim takes the stairs for two reasons. The first is that it seems more professional – the blood pumping a little faster and fluttering under his ears makes him feel alert. The second is that the elevator seemed as if it had already seen its better days. The stairwell isn't that much better with a musty smell of aged alcohol, baby powder, stale bread, and something weird like clay – like a school but sicker. 

His lungs hold out to the appropriate floor. He is in control of his breathing, his heart rate already slowing down by the time he finds the right apartment number. He stands there for just a moment, straightening his posture. Then, he lifts a hand and raps on the door – hard and deliberate – willing this trip not to have been pointless. 

He hears the rattle of the door unlocking behind it. The purpose behind the visit becomes a lot more real as the crack widens, and he rehearses the kid's name one more time in his head –  _Filip Inaros_ . He really hopes the kid is okay. 

The woman who opens the door tilts her head in such a way that the dark, heavy ponytail hanging from it moves like a whip. Jim notices the way she leans on the door frame, and he almost instantly recognizes that she is trying to block something from his view. He knows it, but for just a moment he lets her take the lead. Before she says a word, she is eying him like she is searching out how he ticks. She is a sharp presence, needling her way through something with her eyes. 

“Can I help you, Officer?” she asks. Her voice carries out over the words, and judging by the posture and the drawl and the laser focus of her eyes, she reminds him of other people who might have tried to use charm to work their way out of trouble. This woman isn't doing that. She seems to _be_ trouble and to embrace it more than she has any pretense of avoiding it. She makes him very aware of the hardware he carries with him even though he hasn't had the slightest temptation to use it. 

“Are you Ms. Drummer?” he asks.

“I am,” she says. She doesn't offer to budge.

“I'm Officer Holden,” he finds little choice but to offer in response. “And I'm looking for someone.”

In the short pause he gives her, she keeps staring right at him.

“Who is it?” she asks.

“A child,” Jim says with a tone that he means to impart the seriousness of his interest in this assignment. He watches her as she watches him, feeling out her response.

She breaks eye contact first. She looks down and folds her arms over her chest. She shrugs, but it isn't weak or broken. Even withdrawing seems like a quickly calculated move.

“Lots of them around here.” She pauses for a second. “Kids are expensive,” she adds.

He isn't quite sure where that came from, even if it's the truth.

“I'm looking for Filip Inaros,” he says. He notices the tightening of her brow, and he doesn't have to have years of interrogation training to know what that means.

“And why did you show up looking for him here?”

It's a good performance, but the better it is the more worried Jim gets. He is ready to step around her, but keeping people calm in this kind of situation is a better idea.

“Ms. Drummer,” he says, warning her a little. He hopes it's a nudge in the right direction.

“That's my name,” she confirms, and the tone almost irritates him. He's talking about a child.

“Stop it,” he hears a second voice – differently accented English – coming from behind her.

Camina Drummer looks around her shoulder but still seems determined to stay rooted in her place at the door frame. He can sense her wavering, though, and he takes a single step forward. He hasn't pushed his way through the available gap yet. He has more than enough probable cause to enter without an invitation, but he thinks he can still afford to wait – especially now, hearing that voice.

“Stay there,” Camina says to her friend. It's soft and a little reluctant. Of course, there is no way he can pretend he can't hear her, even if he wanted to.

“No, this is...” the other woman says, and then he hears soft footsteps. A hand takes hold of Camina and pulls her back just a couple of half-steps, and the other woman stands before him. She seems like she is trying to center herself in her own gravity, shoulders too tense and close to her ears. She pockets her hands, trying to disguise it. “I'm Naomi Nagata,” she says, introducing herself without reaching out of changing posture. She does meet his eyes, though, and he holds hers. “Filip's mother,” she explains.

For some reason, Jim becomes aware of the strange, burnt, dry feeling just inside his lower lip. His tongue clicks softly before he manages to speak. His hand pats his uniform down for a pocket, and he fiddles with it until he produces a notepad and a pen. He can feel Camina's eyes on him, but he doesn't take his off Naomi's.

“And where is your son?” he asks.

At that moment, Naomi turns away, her head hanging down a little. She starts to go back the direction she came, and Jim feels his heart sink.

“Right here,” Naomi says softly.

Jim looks at Camina, meeting her eyes without saying a word for a second. Just before he is about to ask her permission, Camina seems to read it in his face and she throws up her hands dramatically and with some disgust. She steps out of the way, and while she does not _invite_ him inside, she stops blocking the path. He steps through the doorway. 

He feels the soles of his shoes catch something a little sticky just over the threshold on the cheap, pocked vinyl. He takes another step and the sticky feeling is gone, but in more than one place it seems laid a little too loosely – an air bubble or two hidden beneath. He looks around, orienting himself quickly. He notices the abrupt divide between vinyl and carpet, and Naomi has crossed over to the other side. 

She has knelt down on top of a blanket. Its smooth texture is dusted with the fuzz of having been laundered over and over. It is printed with a myriad of pastel shooting stars.

On the blanket, Naomi has positioned herself alongside the little baby boy with healthy, fat arms and cheeks that somehow resemble his mother's. He is very busy shaking a bubble from one segment of a decorative teething ring to another. He reaches up and shakes it with determination. In the midst of this motion, Naomi makes a move of her own and scoops him up off the floor. 

Filip makes a startled noise of protest, but lucky the teething ring only shifts a little and starts to slide down his tiny forearm. On his own, he couldn't correct it, but once she is on her feet again Naomi performs a quick little assessment and helps the thing back into his hand. Immediately, he jams one segment into his mouth and gums it. This seems to stave off any further complaint for a moment as he settles into the practiced crook of his mother's arm. 

She turns to Jim. 

“Here,” she says. The word strikes his ears a little strangely. Maybe it's because _'here,'_ might indicate some kind of relinquishment, giving up under different circumstances. _Here_ , this woman makes absolutely no move to bring her child any closer. He is safe held against her chest, and while she stands she does not move. 

“Hi there, little guy,” Jim says. He focuses on Filip's face, and he only manages to glean his attention for a split second. He uses it to tap his temple with his fingertips and to greet him with a little salute. Filip makes a sound that – if he actually spoke baby – he might think was skeptical. He doesn't speak baby, though. Never had the chance. It is only after watching Filip pulse his gums a little bit on the ring a few times that he realizes Naomi is still looking at him like a doe caught in sudden, blinding light. She still looks scared and like he doesn't belong here at all. He doesn't and shouldn't be here longer than he has to be. 

Jim clears his throat. He flips the cover on the notepad to a blank page, whatever more effective means of note-taking he might have at his disposal. He doesn't write anything down but looks at the pad's faint blue lines anyway. He looks back at her eyes. 

“Are you aware that your child's father doesn't know where your son is?” he asks. 

“He sure as fuck knew where to send you,” Camina chimes in. She has retreated some distance back over the vinyl divide, her back pressed to part of the laminate counter. Her arms are folded across her chest. He can sense her animosity, but his ego can handle it. He just glances at her and back to Naomi. 

“He suspected you might be here, but he reported your child as having been taken for 48 hours without his knowledge or consent,” he explains to Naomi. 

He hears a bitter laugh behind him, off to the side. 

“Oh, what bullshit,” Camina muses. He filters her out – almost. It's hard to do. 

Naomi just looks down, well past Filip's feet – covered in tiny socks. 

“It's not true,” she says softly. 

“It isn't?” Jim presses. 

Naomi shakes her head. She lifts her eyes and takes a deep, visible breath. 

“It's not,” she says. “He knew I was leaving.” 

Jim lets the words settle on him for just a moment. He looks at the baby, slobber dribbling from the ring and down his chin – onto his shirt and, to some extent, Naomi's. She doesn't seem to notice. Jim as never been around a younger sibling or anything like that, but judging from looking at the kid he's less than a year old. He looks at Naomi. She looks resilient but there is an exhaustion in her eyes that might stick with him for days. He thinks it might be something beyond just being a young mom. 

He swallows hard enough to notice, to feel it. 

“Do you have joint custody?” he thinks to ask. It isn't exactly his area of expertise. That's another argument, another discussion, that he's never lived through first-hand. 

“I...” He notices Naomi look over at Ms. Drummer as she hesitates. He doesn't look back to see if there is any answer forthcoming. Naomi seems to give up without much shift in her expression as she looks in him the eye. “I don't know,” she explains, frowning a little. 

“So this has never been a discussion between yourself and... Mr. Inaros?” 

“He'd never let it be,” Camina chimes in again with a rough scoff. 

“Drum,” Naomi scolds in turn. 

“Sorry. Just trying to help you tell the nice policeman the _truth_ ,” Camina says. 

“... Sorry,” Naomi repeats, a little more lowly. “About her,” she says, gritted teeth and a pointed glance. It doesn't last long, though. “No, sir, the discussion never came up between Marco and me.” 

“So you removed the child from the home without his permission?” Jim realizes that he hates the way it sounds when she says 'sir' like that. He also asks the next question that seems like the right one, by the book at least. Naomi nods quickly. She looks at him as if realizing something. She shifts her arm and takes a step back. 

Jim lifts his hand as he reads in her body language everything he needs to know about it. He shakes his head. 

“Filip doesn't look like he's in any danger here,” he assures her. He can't help giving her friend a glance, but he doesn't think Ms. Drummer is any kind of threat either. Not to the baby, at least. “I'm not here to take him or you anywhere,” he says. 

He notices Naomi breathe. She nods. He doesn't know if she's grateful, but part of him insists that she shouldn't need to be. 

“So, what are you here to do Officer...” Naomi looks at the engraved, thin rectangle affixed to his chest, “Holden?” 

“I'm just here to check on him and report back,” he says, very honestly. He doesn't even think about filtering it for her ears. She needs to know. 

“Report back...” Naomi says like the very thought of it bothers her. 

Jim winces internally but does his best not to let it show on his face. He still has to nod tightly. 

“This is just a welfare check. We'll... see where it goes from here,” he says. He takes a small step back – not retreating, he thinks, but he realizes that there is a part of him that really, really just wants to leave her – and the baby – safe, as if he'd never gotten involved. He hears his shoe heel touch vinyl again. 

“But you're gonna tell him where I am,” she sighs. 

“He already knew,” Camina offers. There is defiance in her voice that Jim actually likes. 

“If you're trying to... leave there are... people that can help with that,” Jim finds himself saying. It's loud enough – not quite a murmur – but it isn't the smoothest statement to ever come off his tongue. 

“What are you now? A—” Ms. Drummer starts to challenge him, but he steps far enough back that he can easily look between them both. 

“I'm not giving you any kind of legal advice. That was just... me talking as a fellow human being. Not a cop,” he explains. 

“Oh, is that what you are now?” Ms. Drummer asks, tilting her head with a focused glare. 

Naomi looks across the room at her, and Jim thinks he sees something like the ghost of a weary smile on her face. 

“Drum,” she scolds, “are you _trying_ to get arrested?” 

“Wouldn't be the first time,” Camina drones. 

“I'm also not here to arrest anybody,” Jim offers. 

“Don't,” Naomi demands, cutting Camina off. 

The tension is suddenly so thick and fragile that it's almost funny. Jim presses his lips into a tight line, breathes through it, and then it is gone. He flips the notepad closed without having written down a thing. He repacks his pockets and shows one hand in a gesture of vague surrender – at least of something. 

“I've seen what I need to see,” he assures them. He turns to find the door handle and places his hand on it. “I can see myself out. I'm sure someone'll be in touch, but the kid's okay. That's what's important.” 

Jim feels like a flat collection of platitudes trying not to say anything that might actually help anyone when he fumbles with the doorknob a little and lets himself back out into the hall. He gives a cordial wave that he barely feels and murmurs some equally platitudinal goodbye. 

The hall is floored with a cheaper weave of carpet that looks like a cross between itself and equally cheap field turf. It is worn by feet and a strange gray-green-blue that seems unnatural even to bits of itself. He shouldn't notice the floor as much as he does, and when he becomes aware of it, he levels his gaze to the end of the hall and the sign for the stairwell. 

He pauses when he hears the soft  _click_ of a door opening behind him. He glances back. He is still close enough to overhear them. 

“Hold him for a second,” Naomi says softly. 

“Hold him?” Camina asks. He hears the movement of feet. He hears Filip's voice, clear of the muffle of his teething ring, make a sudden, alarmed sound. He hears Naomi making a soothing, hushing sound. “Shit,” Camina says. Jim thinks she and the baby are expressing the same thing. 

“I'll be right back,” Naomi insists. 

“You say that,” Camina calls after her as Naomi backs into the hallway. 

Jim turns to wait, realizing that she is coming after him. 

“But this happens every time I hold this kid,” Camina continues, her voice somewhat quieted by the door falling halfway closed with a soft squeak. 

Naomi's arms are straight at her sides. He notices her fingers fidget as they form little fists and relax again. He quickly lifts his eyes back up to hers. 

“Ms. Nagata?” he asks with no trouble. 

“Uh, yeah,” she responds. “Mister,” she says, and she frowns as if that isn't quite the word she had been going for. He at least gets the spirit behind it and stands there, still waiting. “Just... listen for a second,” she requests. 

He nods without any hesitation. He feels something relax in his forehead, if anything. 

“I... don't know what they teach you in cop-school,” she remarks. He suddenly really wonders where this is going. “But I'm hoping it includes that there's some stuff people can't tell you and some stuff you can't understand, even if you _are_ a cop...” 

Jim is very quiet. Of course she is right that he doesn't know everything, but he's not sure a fellow cop ever tried to teach him that except where it came to the chain of command. He remembers to nod when he realizes she hasn't continued. 

“... Just, there's some things I can't say 'cause I don't even know how to say them yet,” she says quickly. She glances back toward the doorway at the sound of Camina's voice. 

“Aunt,” Camina is grumbling in something that is trying to approach a friendly coo. “Or godmother?” she suggests. That one doesn't sound right at all coming from her. “Or even bodyguard,” she continues. “So why can't you just trust me?” 

Naomi's face relaxes a little into a smirk of some schadenfreude tinged with regret as Filip makes his opinion on the matter known with abrupt, complaining cries. 

“But I just know I can't be there anymore,” Naomi says, more urgently now. “And I know my son belongs with me. So I think that means... he shouldn't be there, too.” Her brow ticks down and relaxes as if something crosses her mind and then goes somewhere else entirely. She starts to turn away, reaching for the door again. “Just... think about it?” she says, and he thinks it's a request. Then, she turns her back and goes back inside. She closes the door and he hears the locks rattle. The baby's crying softens a little and she's gone. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this format works. Thank you again to all who have read and left kudos and commented. Especially those of you who have taken the time to comment and share your thoughts are such big helps. 
> 
> This chapter guest stars unnamed Octavia Muss who is not tagged this time because I'm not sure she'll show up again, but I really enjoyed show!her and she seemed like a good fit for that scene. 
> 
> A "mandated reporter" is a person who is required by their professional role to report reasonably suspected domestic abuse, violence, or neglect. I know this because my job is among them. These jobs include: doctors, teachers, police officers, and child-care workers. It may vary, but in general you -- a civilian who is not in one of these professional roles -- cannot be held _legally liable_ automatically for failing to report an ongoing abuse or neglect problem just because you were nearby. In the case of mandated reporters, though, they _can_ be held legally liable for failing to properly report suspected abuse, violence, or neglect because they are in positions of power that may be kind of front lines of defense of people made vulnerable to and by these things. Thanks for coming to my... fic, please continue reading.

_'Just think about it.'_ It sticks in Jim's head, more a command than a request. When he gets back to the police cruiser, he leans his head back for a moment. From the parking lot, the housing authority's building stretches upward and blocks out the sky.

He notices the silhouettes of people pass in front of the car and flits his gaze back down. He turns the ignition and hears it rattle. He feels eyes on him, but they quickly avert themselves and focus on other things when he tries to meet them. He shows no animosity toward the people here, but he knows what the car he drives looks like, and he can hardly blame them.

He drives down a few blocks before radioing in that he had seen Filip Inaros, safe and sound and with his mother. He knows there's more to it than that, but he does his best to let it rest for the time being. He needs to think.

A few pretty justified traffic stops and routine patrols later, Jim finds himself back at the precinct. The paperwork and turning in is usually the most dull, tedious part of a shift, but this afternoon he feels something tight and tense behind his ears and along the side of his neck. He glances at the brass nameplate on the Captain's door. He bows his head a little and scratches lightly at the back of his head as if to make less of himself as he passes it by.

He doesn't know what he's hoping for – a lifeline, maybe – when he walks into the empty break room and feels like he's hiding for several minutes. It feels like a long time, and his gaze flits to the sound of the door knob turning.

A woman walks in, curly hair piled and tied to the back and top of her head. She caries a stack of papers backed by a folder and looks for all the world like an administrative worker. Her clothes don't belie her rank at all, her badge concealed somewhere along with her weapon. She looks tired and lost in thought, too, when she nods a greeting to Jim. She slides by him to get at the copier.

“They don't pay someone else to do that for you?” Jim asks mildly when he notices her feeding page by page to the machine – sometimes on the glass, sometimes through the top tray.

“They might,” she allows in a pleasant, dubious hum. She places one of the originals back into its original pile, held protectively to her side. “But sometimes I just need to feel it.”

“The _copier_?” Jim scoffs, and for the briefest moment he feels the normal, almost airy detachment from the outside world that belongs here. He knows from experience and hearsay that copiers are among the world's most-reviled machines. He can remember hearing his mom complain loudly at one of them, and it's no different here. 

“The work,” she says, and just like that the daydream is gone.

Jim frowns. He remembers why he has been avoiding taking the next step, and he glances sidelong at the woman's face. He wonders if she would know – if she's the lifeline. He tries to adjust his posture so he appears a little more casual, but it's hard to do when she's in plain-clothes and he's still wearing his uniform. 

“Yeah, about that...” he segues, and he knows that he at least has her attention from the look he gets. He lets it stay on him for a moment, trying not to wince. “Let's say you—Are you ever in a situation where you're undercover and you meet someone and... you know what the book says you should do, but _you're_ not sure of the best way to handle it?” 

The scowl he gets as a reply is cutting and lasts long enough for the copier to stop making its rhythmic, high whining churn of a sound. The detective collects her copies and stares Jim down. He's pretty sure she doesn't blink. 

“My job is all about making decisions on the fly. Trying to keep my integrity while I do it,” she says. He can hear the _'but,'_ before she utters it. “But what did you _do_ , Holden?” 

“Nothing,” he says, already holding both hands up in loose surrender, about the level of his shoulders. 

“Uh-huh,” she says with every inch of her voice and frame. She raises her eyebrows, whole body turning to challenge him without a word. 

“Nothing,” he repeats. “... Not yet.” 

He hadn't thought it was possible for her eyebrows to shoot up higher, but they do. 

“What's her name?” she asks, pointedly. 

Jim's stomach tightens a little more than he expects for it to. He feels like he's been punched but not hard enough to take his breath. He inhales through it, but he feels his own brow screw up into an expression of something resembling hurt. He blinks at the woman in front of him. 

“What,” he says softly, not a question. 

“Tell me I'm wrong,” she says. She shrugs and drums the fingertips of her free hand along the counter-top where a really worse-for-wear coffeemaker sits. 

“It... is a woman,” Jim answers cautiously. He wonders how she _does that_ , but it's in her title. He sees the look of recognition registering across her face and he lifts a hand and his index finger to try and forestall it. “ _But_ ,” he insists, “it's not like that.” 

He is met with rolling eyes. 

“It never is, but it always is,” she says. “This is why I think we should probably place a moratorium on male detective work, but no one listens to me,” she says with only a tinge of dry humor. She sighs, rolling right past it. She looks down and shifts her weight a little as if to find a more comfortable place to plant her feet. She looks up at him with a cocked head. “Fine,” she says. “Tell me how it's _different_ this time,” she says. 

“It's not just about the woman,” Jim says. His brow stays tight as he tries to explain it. “It's about her kid...” 

“Her kid?” the woman asks sharply. Her fingers drum hard against the counter-top. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Welfare check. She's... going through a break-up, I think. The kid's father called it in.” 

The knit of his colleague's brow isn't exactly reassuring. Neither is how long it takes her to say anything. He can see thought and worry that he doesn't think he's earned with the information he has given her playing out behind her eyes. 

“The father, huh,” she murmurs eventually. She finally meets his eyes. “Jim,” she says, cutting past any formality in a way that feels gently scathing. “This is above your pay-grade. It's not your _job_ to psychologize what's going on between these people.” She clears her throat softly, glancing off to the side but only for a second. “No offense, but you're not a detective. And you're sure as hell not a social worker. And I know I'm not one either, so that's as far as it goes.” 

Jim watches her for a moment before sighing and letting his shoulders slump. 

“You're right,” he allows, reluctantly. 

A hand on her hip. 

“But?” 

“It's just... there's got to be something—”

“Something you can do?” she asks, almost cutting off his thought. She clicks her tongue softly and shakes her head. “It's a dangerous road to walk down, Officer Holden.” She shakes her head a little. She looks at him, her eyes sad, compassionate maybe. “Whatever you do, you're already in too deep. And it's been – what – six hours? I've seen some bad decisions made by cops who care, but wow.” 

Jim shakes his head, and then his posture finally manages something that is a little bit like defiance. 

“No,” he says softly. “I'm not in 'too deep' because I finally see... something that isn't just me enforcing laws and rules that – maybe they make sense, maybe they're necessary – but that never touch any of the people I'm supposed to _serve_ with anything but... fines and criminal records.” 

“Wow,” she repeats after a moment. She lifts her hand – only one – in a placating gesture. She reaches toward his shoulder, but she doesn't touch him. “Look, I get it. The idealism wears off.” She sighs for him, and he can tell. “But that doesn't mean what you're doing is worthless. Keep going. Work your way up. Do what you're supposed to do and get where you're supposed to be,” she says, each step making sense when spoken in isolation. “And if that's... not this line of work...” she adds more discreetly. 

“Hey,” Jim protests lowly, too. “Don't... Don't do that. Just... give me something I can work with,” he bargains. For a while, he thinks she's finished playing, but finally she shrugs high and looks at him. 

“Fine,” she says. “You want to play it through. Do your job as a mandated reporter but make sure it gets to the most... _interestingly biased_ ears... I think I can get you a name.” 

Jim can't imagine what she means, but he knows it's what he wants to hear. 

“Thank you,” he says. He thinks about it for a moment more and nods, feeling more resolved. “Thank you,” he repeats, reaching out and touching her shoulder in a companionable, appreciative way. 

She nods curtly. 

“Yeah,” she says. “Your job on the line. Don't say I didn't warn you,” she says, but there is at least a hint of dryness in her tone. “Go,” she orders with a nod. “I'll text you,” she says, and somehow that feels like a more illicit promise than it is. He finally leaves the break room, relieved but wondering why. 

\- - - 

It is evening, nearly dark when another firm, rattling knock interrupts the silence. Naomi feels her heart start to pound in her chest again, and this time she knows there is more to be afraid of. The knock isn't just efficient and loud, but it continues with an intimidating insistence that demands that someone answer it. She stares at the door as if she could will it away, but there are probably more things than fists to worry about on the other side. Her phone falls from her hand, scowling at job search websites and financial aid office pages forgotten. She places it on the coffee table, but then she thinks better of it and straightens enough to push it down into her pants pocket. She might not have time to call anyone – and who would she call? 

The police officer from earlier comes to mind, but in her experiences with the police, they weren't prone to taking requests. 

She turns her attention to Filip. He stirs in response to the noise, and for the first time the rattling sound makes her angry as well as afraid. For almost an hour, her son has been lying on his back on a blanket at her side, his chest and round belly rising and falling in peaceful, silent slumber. She can tell he is waking, and she hears Camina's thudding, determined footsteps coming through from her bedroom. She makes a decision and picks up her son, coaxing him against her chest and hoping against hope that somehow he will go back, remain asleep through this. She strokes the back of his head with her fingertips and shushes softly into his ear, starting to shift her weight in a rhythm on her feet. 

Camina opens the door to her own apartment. In her loose, sleeveless top, Naomi can see the rope of tense muscle running along the back of her arm. She is ready to try and single-handedly keep the men on the other side of the door at bay. Naomi can't help thinking it's brave but stupid. Guilt wells in the pit of her stomach, deeper still, because she has put someone in this position. Maybe there was a time when she might have been able to say that it was mutual – that they'd have been willing to do anything for each other just because of who they were, but time and boys and men and streets and neighborhoods and school and distance and being  _girls_ here had slowly built a wall that only desperation had torn down. With startling efficiency. 

It still makes her feel like she owes far more than she can repay, especially with a baby to protect held tight in her arms. 

There are two men at the door, both instantly recognizable. One wears looser clothes while the other carries himself with an air of diplomatic dignity in spite of all the noise, all the posturing outside that she knows Camina's entire floor is now aware of. They know they've put everyone on alert. They just don't care. 

One is a boy she's known since high school. He stands to her right hand and seems to be the one whose fist had been engaged with Camina's door and its frame. The other is a man whose frame and voice and stance are so familiar that they're as much a part of her as the little boy held to her chest. She swallows a thick, fast, sickening rush of saliva that floods her mouth in place of words. 

“Let me see her,” Marco orders Camina conversationally, as if his mere approach doesn't speak of aggression, of a threat. 

Naomi knows better now. She feels like the floor is drawing at her feet, her knees, but she keeps the latter locked tight. 

“Don't you mean 'him'?” Camina challenges. 

“'Him'?” Marco asks. Naomi hates how he sounds like he's trying to be polite. She hates it for a lot of reasons. 

She sees the quick tilt of Camina's head, the dubiousness visible even from the back. 

“Well, I guess I could mean the cop you gave my name and address. Or I could mean your son,” she says pointedly. 

“Ah,” Marco intones. Naomi sees past Camina – the way he rolls his shoulders in something smoother than a shrug. He pockets his hands. The way he's dressed, it looks like he could have been planning on going to church instead of across town to shake down his ex in the name of their son. “And would either one of those things be necessary if we had just _talked_ like calm, mature adults?” he challenges her like he means to educate her. 

Camina snorts with disgust. 

“Get the hell away from me,” she orders, but it isn't a desperate demand. It is an expression of contempt with no fear behind it at all. 

“I didn't come to see you,” Marco points out. Then he lifts his hands. They touch at the palms and align along each finger. He makes a gesture to point with both index fingers. It is so slow and deliberate that it looks almost innocuous, but something about it looks familiar. It hums at the base of Naomi's skull that it looks like a child – using fingers for a gun. “I came to see Naomi,” he says, and in spite of everything her feet move by a step when he says her name, only to plant firmly onto the floor. 

“And she doesn't want to see you or she'd be in your apartment, wouldn't she?” Camina asks, but Naomi barely makes it out. He has caught her eyes, and even if it is for an entirely different reason than it used to be, she can't look away. She knows with increasing clarity that this is something she can't simply run from. She can try, but he has something on her. It's the reason he still looks at her like she is the only person – the only _thing_ in the room. 

She feels her skin crawl. She feels the warm squirming against her chest. She notices the garbled sounds Filip makes, and she wonders if they mean excitement. 

She is afraid they do. 

He hears  _his daddy's_ voice, calm and controlled after the storm outside has passed. 

She wishes she could tell him in words that the storm hasn't passed. It's just looking for a way inside. 

She barely gives herself allowance to blink. 

“Naomi,” Marco prompts. 

Camina glances back over her shoulder. 

“Go into the bedroom, Naomi,” she tries to insist. 

Naomi glances back in turn, but then she looks at the other woman and shakes her head. She is met with a look of near-offense. 

“I'll talk to you, Marco,” she agrees. She glances over at the couch. She is aware of the faint electronic heat in her pocket. She takes a few steps forward. Marco steps back but only to hold out his arms for his family. She is glad Camina is standing between them. “But talking's all I'm doing.” 

Marco's shoulders slump a little, but he keeps his arms held up and out. Everything about is movements looks like a performance now. He is vibrant, charismatic, but none of it looks like anything but a performance to her now. 

“Baby,” he coaxes, drawing out the word in a way that seems too pointed to be around other people, “don't be like that. I came all the way over here to see you. I want to clear this up.” 

“And that's why you called the cops,” Camina points out, but she makes way just a little, slow and cautious in her movement. Her arms fold, but they don't stay that way. She stretches them, keeping them loose and apparently ready to move. 

“Exercising my right as a concerned parent,” Marco points out, finally giving Naomi a respite from his prying eyes with a glance at Camina. 

“I bet,” is all Camina says in response. 

“Let me see him,” Marco says more than asks as Naomi gets a little closer to the doorway. She shakes her head and backtracks a little, holding Filip tighter. She sees the registry of the response all over Marco's face. He is angry, cooler toward her without moving or changing his tone at all. “He's my son,” he points out. 

“Your _baby_ ,” Naomi snaps, correcting his address of her from before because she can't help it. “And he's... your child, but...” 

“But,” Marco warns her, almost casually. 

“But the life you're living – the life you've _been living_ ,” with her – but not anymore, “isn't safe. It isn't right for him, and if you want to call the police I'm sure there's plenty I could tell them about that.” 

She notices the bristle in movement from their – Marco's – silent friend at his side. There is a calming gesture from Marco, and he doesn't move. For all the world, he could have been a trained soldier, listening only to one man. She doesn't know why she didn't see it before. 

“Are you playing with me?” Marco asks her, giving her every opportunity to say 'yes.' 

She shakes her head in a simple enough reply. 

He sighs, very heavily. He closes his eyes. 

“Just come home, Naomi.” He blinks his eyes open again and looks at her, anger seemingly abated. “We can talk about this there. There's no point bothering our friends with stuff we should be working out together for _our family_.” 

“Our 'family,'” Naomi snaps back at him, “is built on lies you told me. For _years_ , and I—” she says, but the words die in her throat. She's afraid to say them, but more than that, she's so angry that she sees white for a second. 

“Naomi,” he snaps, as if saying her name again and again will change it. “I'd like to say hello to my son,” he tries. 

She shifts Filip's weight in her arms. She notices the way he cranes his neck to look at Marco. She knows if she lets him shift around very much that he will probably reach for him. Her stomach knots itself and turns in her belly. It is one part of this that makes her feel like a monster – and there are more, too. She can't tell him yet – she can't explain the lies she has told her baby, unwitting and complicit. He is too young to understand that there is anything in the world but truth, and she has lied to him so completely that he wants his daddy. Her eyes burn and she blinks fast. 

Decisively, she shakes her head. 

“No,” she says. “We can... we can discuss it later,” she says, placating when she doesn't mean to. She hates it and wishes she hadn't said it, but she keeps going. “But for now, you need to let the answer be 'no.'” 

She isn't looking at him except in the periphery of her vision when he shifts his stance, his entire posture. She recognizes the hiss of breath, the snarl of anger. She could give him the same, but for now fear overrides it. 

“Fine,” he says, so fervently that it really does sound magnanimous, like he could give up their son happily and in a heartbeat. Like she has convinced him. He even backs away, and she hears the creak of the floor in the hallway. “You want to play it that way?” he demands. She glances up at him and notices the visceral change in the way he carries himself. Her heart is pounding again. She glances down at the hip and side of the man beside him. Marco's clothes are so well-fitted it would be hard for him to be carrying, if not impossible. His friend, on the other hand. 

The fact that she even thinks it is crazy, and she knows it. She can't undo the last years of her life, though, so all she can do is take a defensive step backward, to hold her son tighter to her. She can hear the sounds of him starting to blubber more urgently, edging toward crying. He senses it, even if she cannot tell him. His mother is afraid. 

The tension defuses abruptly, and he is already walking away when she hears the words of hushed conversation drift back toward them. The word  _'bitches,'_ is used multiple times and in creative and casual ways, almost making it sound like a fairly standard word of address. Camina slams the door purposefully, power and determination visible through her stance even as she locks it down. Naomi can't help but smile a watery, weary smile. A frightened smile that she shows to Filip as she holds him up, swings him gently in her arms, holds him tight, walks with him, and does everything she can to stop him crying. Everything but the one thing she can't do. 

He huffs and splutters in exhaustion against her shoulder later. She has almost won him back to sleep and murmurs affectionate words into his ear, along with an apology. 

“I'm so sorry,” she says, and she only hopes the words will still hold their meaning when he fully understands them. “I'm so sorry that Mummy is afraid...” 

\- - - 

Natural light floods through the office and reflects a little harshly off the interior pane of glass that makes up part of the wall of his little office. Amos squints against it. Even the paperwork he is looking at seems to shine too bright. He squints at it and keeps filling it out. He won't shut the blinds, though, because he once had a kid tell him that it made it dark and scary. So he doesn't shut the blinds anymore except in desperate circumstances. 

He looks up, still squinting but this time part of it is a glare as someone casually knocks on the door frame, unannounced and without an appointment. He looks beyond a stack of manilla folders on the corner of his desk and through a dusty moat of light to see a uniformed police officer standing there with a friendly smile on his face. Amos doesn't return it. 

“Can I help you?” he asks in a tone that clearly indicates that he is busy and has little interest in helping. 

“Yeah, I'm... I'm Officer Holden,” the man says. He steps over the threshold and stretches out his hand to offer it to Amos. Amos keeps his dominant hand working on the paperwork and doesn't reach up. He just looks a little higher this time to meet the man's eyes. 

“And you're here without an appointment. Talking to me,” he says in response. 

“Uh... yes,” Officer Holden says as he withdraws his hand back to his side. Amos looks up and eyes just how close his hand hanging casually at his side is to a gun. He files it away, the same way he always does. 

“What do you want?” he asks, ticking another appropriate box. 

“I was given your name by—” Officer Holden starts to respond, but Amos looks back up. He rises from his chair, to his full height, and picks up a few folders from the shorter stack on the other side of his desk. He uses the movement to circle all the way around Holden's back in the space, placing the stack of folders heavily in a cheap little plastic basket near the doorway. He goes back behind his desk, but he doesn't sit down. 

“Just do you know,” he says, “I ain't in the business of taking bribes from cops. Didn't think I'd get your kind at CPS, but if you pulled something with some chick you think'll talk and that I'm gonna help you out or look the other way because—” He gestures wordlessly to his own shoulders and the build that flows down from them as if it is a clearly comprehensible explanation, “I'm not your guy.” He looks back down and turns the completed side of the form over. He gives a half shrug. “And you've got the wrong department.” 

“Whoa,” Officer Holden says, informally and delayed. He seems to have struck a nerve. Amos lifts his eyebrows, but it's with interest more that Officer Holden is still standing there talking than anything else. “First of all _whoa_ ,” the officer continues, this time as if he is trying to slow Amos down. “Second, that is _not_ what I came here for. That's—” Officer Holden spares himself finishing that sentence. “I'm... here about a child welfare case,” he explains, switching back into something that Amos recognizes as a _professional_ tone. “And I was given your name as a guy I might want to talk to if I was... serious about trusting my gut.” 

Amos isn't surprised that often, least of all by cops. There are good ones, bad ones, and ones that don't care. They're just like other people except they usually don't hide their weapons and power. The one thing he likes the most about them is that they're really transparent people – not hard to figure out in a moment or two. This time, though, Amos realizes that maybe he looked too fast. 

He lifts his eyes without distraction and appraises Officer Holden more carefully this time. In spite of his pretty-boy, iron-happy appearance, his eyes don't have the almost drunk-sober thirst for attention and power that Amos had half-expected to see there. Maybe so much that he'd imagined it. Looking closer, he sees wide-eyed, embarrassing innocence for a man Holden's age. 

He sighs and feels weight push down on his shoulders. He recalibrates himself and hooks his thumbs in his empty belt loops. 

“Okay,” he says, cautiously. “I'm listening,” he explains, not bothering to hide that he hadn't really been doing so before. “What can I do for you?” 

 


End file.
